Come Morning I Won't Mind
by eeelastic9
Summary: Written for FYJFF's September "Red Pants" contest. When I saw the red pants prompt, I immediately thought of Paulie Bleeker holding Juno's skivvies. This is what happened, and it quickly took on a life of its own. Alternating first person perspective.


_~John~_

It started with a chair.

Adrenaline rushing through our veins, mad laughter erupting from foolish grins, wild eyes meet with a spark in our living room.

Sherlock backs me up until my knees hit the chair. Long fingers on my shoulders push me down. He steps back.

"John," he says, smile dropping off his face in a flash. He is completely serious now as he gazes down at me in my chair.

"What is it?" I can't quite keep the smile out of my voice.

"Let's have sex."

My eyes open wide and all the breath in my lungs flies out of me like I've been punched.

"I—um, why?"

"Chemicals, John. My brain has too much adrenaline and yours does too and I can see your pupils dilating so let's just... get on with it."

As I sputter and try to come up with an appropriate response, Sherlock begins to unfasten his trousers.

"No messing about with you, is there?" I try to joke once my voice works again.

Slowly, with the slightest hint of trepidation filled those beautiful eyes, Sherlock slips his trousers and pants right off in one motion. Bright red pants. Sherlock never ceases to surprise me.

I sit back in the armchair, confused but undeniably aroused at the sight of him. He climbs into my lap with a nervous sigh, never breaking eye contact until he moves forward and kisses me, removing my belt as he does.

The kiss is sloppy and awkward, but my lips buzz with the sensation.

"I've wanted this for a really long time," I whisper as he nuzzles into my neck.

"I know," he replies.

Of course he does.

Sherlock guides my hand to his bare arse, fishing a bottle of lube from under the seat cushion of the armchair. _The bastard planned this well, didn't he?_

Clearly, my libido has no problems with his plan. I've wanted Sherlock for so long that I can't even think straight. I can't think of the consequences because I just want _him_.

###

Later that night, in a beautiful, blissful haze, Sherlock snores lightly on my chest. His bony elbows dig into my ribs, but I'm too exhausted to move him, and besides, I don't want to wake him.

My mind races through what's happened. I don't know why I thought this was okay. More likely is that I didn't think at all. Sherlock would certainly agree. Oh god.

Sherlock.

_I took Sherlock's virginity_, I remind myself. _And the worst part is that he was probably just bored._

I can't possibly fathom why Sherlock wanted to have sex with me. It was magnificent, and god, did I want it, but it was almost certainly my worst decision to date.

###

_~Sherlock~_

As soon as I wake to find myself in John's bed, I feel the blood drain from my face. I unwrap myself from the duvet as gently as I can, figuring that the "morning after" situation likely falls under John's heading of "a bit not good".

As soon as I am free, I bound down the stairs. But what do I do now? Do I try to ignore it, pretend it never happened? How am I supposed to talk to John anymore? Live with him?

I need someone better versed in inter-personal relationships.

Certainly not Mycroft. Completely out of the question.

Molly? No, she'd likely be devastated that I had slept with John and not her. (How very considerate of me, though it is more to preserve my own dignity than hers.)

Lestrade it is, then, though given his track record of divorce followed by two other ghastly relationships, he is perhaps also a terrible source.

But short of going to Mrs Hudson, I have no one else to ask.

He picks up on the fourth ring.

"Sherlock? You never call. Everything alright?"

I had planned out an entire script. Instead, I blurt, "I had sex with John last night and I don't know what to do. He's still sleeping and I'm terrified—"

"Hang on. Slow down. You had sex with John? Seriously?"

"Yes, Lestrade, you know how I loathe repetition. Now what do I do?"

"How did this come to pass? Were you just incredibly bored?"

"No, the act was premeditated. But now I don't know how to face John because I'm sure he'll think the same as you and will feel utterly awful about his decision once he wakes."

"Sorry, when did you decide 'Mister Married-to-my-Work' was going to sleep with Doctor Watson?"

"Ninety-six days ago. Now, please, John could wake at any moment. What do I do?"

"Oh my god. Are you in love with him?" he sounds as though he is trying not to laugh. How obnoxious.

Obnoxious enough to make me stutter. "I—It's actually quite complicated. Now, Lestrade: answer the question."

"Well, what are your intentions? Do you know John's? Honestly, Sherlock, you just need to have a talk. Clear the air. If he thinks it's a bad idea, you'll soon find out and you can just let it blow over. Gather your 'data' and don't jump to conclusions."

I hear a floorboard creak. "Right. John's awake. I'll be off then."

"Sher—"

I hang up on him.

That was an almost entirely useless conversation.

###

_~John~_

For the next week or so, we are distant and unsure of each other. When I see him about the flat, I practically ache for him. _Not good, Watson. Get a hold of yourself_.

So I assume the worst, which is that Sherlock found himself pulsing with hormones and figured people already think we're sleeping together: why not prove them right? He probably thinks I'm some sex-crazed maniac and he knew he could get me to agree to shag.

It's during one of these depressing self pep-talks that Sherlock knocks awkwardly on my bedroom door.

Sherlock never knocks.

"Come on in," I say, keeping my voice steady.

"John, I... I need to discuss something with you."

I look at him expectantly, but say nothing.

"John." Sherlock purses his perfect bow lips. Those beautiful lips that I wish I could kiss right now. Kiss that pout right off his impossible face. "Last week when we..."

"Had sex?" I supply.

He nods very slightly, eyes downcast, and continues. "You think it was because I got bored. That is not the case. There are plenty of other things I could have done to alleviate boredom that would not have jeopardised our relationship. We had sex because I felt ... I _felt_. For you. But now it seems I've made a terrible mistake. Because you're uncomfortable in my presence. We haven't made eye contact for over four days. So, I suppose, I should apologise for having sex with you. I know it wasn't your idea. It was... kind of you. To go along with it. For me. But I understand. If you'd like to move out."

"You're _sorry_ you had _sex with me_? What are you—No, hang on a minute. 'Wasn't my idea?' It was at least partly my idea, Sherlock. I wouldn't have gone along with it just as some kind of weird favour to you. Besides, who said anything about moving out?"

"It makes perfect sense, John. Even an idiot could understand why you would no longer want to continue living with me when I've clearly over-stepped your precious border of heterosexuality!"

"Why are you so upset? If anything, I should be the emotional one here. Jesus, Sherlock."

"I'm not _emotional,_ Sherlock sneers. "_Sociopath_, remember?"

No. I can't believe that. I _don't _believe that. He uses that word like a shield and I won't have it.

I close my eyes and try to control my breathing. I want to reach out to him, hold him, maybe even kiss him, but Sherlock is usually much more responsive to words.

I don't have the words.

But I do have his underwear.

Before I can second-guess myself, I yank my trousers open, just enough to show him that I am, in fact, currently wearing his ridiculous red underpants.

_~Sherlock~_

I feel my face contort as confusion battles against relief. _Relief?_ (Question it later.)

"You're wearing my pants. Why?"

John freezes, but tells me, "I ... I like being reminded of you. You and me. What we, er, did. Together." John's hands scramble to refasten his trousers. He seems incredibly flustered, but of course, so am I. All this discussing of feelings is exhausting. I cannot predict emotions. I can't predict what he'll say. (The many wonders of John.)

I gape for a moment, at a loss for words myself, so he continues. "Look, I know you think you're married to your work and that you don't 'do' relationships, but quite frankly, I think that's a load of rot. I think on this one, you're just going to have to trust me."

A shiver slides down my spine as my mind blazes through dozens of scenarios: John taking complete control, John leaving, John's fingertips ghosting over my body, John shouting at me and then fucking me angrily...

"Do you trust me?" He interrupts my thoughts.

"Unconditionally." I frustratingly have no other words in my mind but for this.

"Then please, Sherlock. Just let me... let me."

He pulls down his trousers again, and stands next to his bed in those ridiculous red pants. He peels off his jumper (the oatmeal coloured cable-knit one—an atrocity, but for it being John's) and tosses it on the chair, and then he puts his hands carefully but firmly on my hips.

His tongue darts out to wet his lips and I lean down to kiss him, chasing after his tongue with my own. His hands roam my torso and he is unbuttoning my shirt. I am impatient; I want his skin on mine. I guide his hands back to my hips and I simply pull the shirt over my head. He laughs and leans back into my lips.

"Impatient, are we?" he murmurs.

"The red really suits you better," I whisper into his mouth.

His lips quirk and he nearly purrs, "Hmm? Red?"

"The pants," I say, dropping my voice low.

"Well maybe I should just keep them."

"Only seems appropriate."

I shimmy out of my trousers and stand awkwardly, unsure of how to proceed.

John holds out his arms to me and grins, "Come here, you madman."

Eagerly I step into his embrace, and John pulls me down onto the bed.

###

Come morning, neither one of us is wearing the red pants.

I don't find that I mind.


End file.
